


Musique Concrète

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: The Odalisque Timestamps [26]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blood, Bondage, Cuddling & Snuggling, Destruction, Established Relationship, M/M, No Lube, Priceless Artifacts, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:12:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The viola shines nearly scarlet as Will lifts it to his chin and plucks childishly across its strings. They resonate with a depth and warmth that plucks heat to Hannibal’s eyes. He sighs out hard, as in his mind flashes the name of every owner of that instrument, every composition it may have sung, every unlikely year of its survival to end up here.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Here, with them.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Here, safely possessed.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Here, in the hands of a selfish boy who delights in destruction.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Musique Concrète

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd off-the-cuff Odawolves depravity. Apologies for any errors, and we hope you enjoy!

“Again?” Will laughs. “You would like me to remind you again?”

Hannibal needn't answer in words for his little wolf to lean near and draw the tip of his nose against Hannibal’s cheek, humming warm against him as he slips his lithe form over Hannibal's skin.

“Because little can hold a monster better than willpower and silk,” he whispers, drawing a long lick against Hannibal’s throat.

Will sits back, shorts riding high against his thighs and hair curling long over his shoulders, and watches the monster of his life shift his wrists in the bonds that hold him to the bed. Hannibal can claw from them as easily as Will can, now. Very few things can truly hold either wolf from movement and revenge and yet both find themselves often so restrained. It brings the other pleasure. It brings them both pleasure. Will rocks his ass back against Hannibal’s cock and sighs, before swinging his leg over his bound mate and standing from the bed. 

The restraints snap taut, fabric shining in the bedroom’s low lights. Fingers that reached to grasp for Will curl to fists instead as Hannibal relaxes back, sucking his lips between his teeth in a bare hint of frustration. Will glances across his shoulder and laughs.

“Don’t tell me you’re already breaking.”

“No,” Hannibal says. “Eager, perhaps, is a better word.”

Will hums, pleased and knowing, and taps his fingertips against the ridge of Hannibal’s cock, still held in the confines of snug black satin. The thick organ rises in response to the touch, and Hannibal sighs. The sound cuts short as Will walks past the end of the bed and continues on.

Bound by wrists and ankles, to free himself Hannibal would have to find the weak weft of the material and tear it, ruining the expensive scarves and bespoke ties that hold him in place. Greying hair fallen into his eyes, lips thinned, bare but for his bindings and boxer-briefs, he watches Will and the sway of his backside, the scar from his kidney removal and countless more that stripe pale along his back. A little tear, and he could bring him to the ground, pin him and take him savagely.

A little tear, and the antique cravat around his left wrist would be ruined.

“Where are you going, dreadful boy?”

“I’m finding some toys,” Will tells him, tickling his fingers against the doorframe before disappearing beyond.

Hannibal considers the selection Will has to choose from, years of gathered mutual amusement for both of them, as much to torment as to pleasure, as much to push boundaries as ingrain those that already exist. Despite their play ranging in ferocity, beyond the one time in their first year together that Will had asked - and had - Hannibal, he has never tried to again. Neither enjoy it as much as their chosen roles and the chase required to reassure the other of their desire for them to remain. 

“Will?”

Something to tease, perhaps. Something to cause pain. But nothing that would penetrate, nothing that would leave lasting marks. Lasting marks are earned between the two of them, they come from clawed hands and snarled teeth and bright eyes narrowed in the joy of the slaughter.

No. Nothing cruel can come of this.

“Will.”

The growl hums through Hannibal’s bones and the relief that comes from hearing his boy’s petulant sigh soothes the vibrations to nothing but breath. The headboard creaks as Hannibal flexes tension against it. He is aging, and in rare moments of a missed grab or a quivering grip can feel his impending weakness, but for his years, he is still far more fit than most. A glance down at his own form reassures himself, and he tightens his belly as Will returns with a box.

“Impatience is not to be rewarded,” Will observes, mimicking Hannibal’s accent.

“Will you punish me?”

Will only smiles in response to this, and Hannibal studies the ebony box he carries in his arms. It is not one of the cases used to hold their implements. There is a veneer of dust across the top. He draws in a breath, past the scent of their home and the polished wood, past the aging satin lining within.

Hannibal blinks.

“My 17th century Chinese rhino horn tea set,” he notes, brow raising, though not in displeasure. “Will you be enjoying afternoon tea, little wolf? How unexpectedly civilized.”

Will grins, chin up proudly as he parades and preens before his partner. He sets the box down at the foot of their bed and opens it carefully, elegant fingers shifting dust before he allows the lid to set to the end of the bed. Will takes a cup in his hands and lifts it.

“I remember when you brought these home,” he murmurs. “Still wiping specks of blood from your cheek and with a smile on your face so bright you lit up. You were like a child at Christmas with a new favorite toy.”

Will shifts to kneel on the side of the bed and tucks his toes beneath his bottom.

“One of a kind,” Will sighs. “Invaluable, impossible to replicate or replace. The most grand set for the grandest of parties.” Will peels his fingers from the delicate form one by one before casually letting the little cup drop over the side of the bed and crack against the tile floor.

Hannibal’s breath stops, the split ringing in the silence of the room and the chambers of his skull. Not one piece rattles to a stop, but two. His mouth goes dry.

_Will you punish me?_

“Will,” he finally whispers, tendons in his arm pulling stark beneath his skin as he pulls against his bindings. “Miserable boy, do not -”

Both of Will’s brows raise beneath his hair. His smile spreads to a toothy grin, boyish and bright. He lifts up the next cup, yellowed horn shot through with streaks of black and brown, naturally marbled and beautiful. It is carved from a single horn, in the shape of a many-petaled lotus, without a handle so that it can be cradled in both hands.

Will lifts it with one and lets it drop lazily behind his shoulder to the floor. The crack is like bone, splintering. Not a clean snap but a deep wound, marring the precise wholeness of the piece.

Ruined.

Destroyed.

Never to be replaced.

The headboard rattles sharply as he picks up the third cup and Hannibal makes a low sound, a warning growl from deep in his throat. “Rhino horn can no longer be harvested to make these, wretched boy, the animals will be extinct before our lives are over and you -”

“I,” Will says, slipping a hand between his legs, “am really hard.” The third cup is dropped without even a preamble or warning. The bed jerks again and Will slips to sit over Hannibal's hips again, rubbing his ass against him. 

“Undeniably, so are you. The knowledge that something so beautiful, so entirely its own, is destroyed by something that is yours.” Will bites his lip and squeezes his thighs together. “No one else will ever see it or hold it. It will never exist whole again for another human being. Doesn't it make you feel powerful?”

Hannibal’s hips arch upward, giving Will what he seeks, denying that he himself wants any of this. It is a distraction for a terrible child, wreaking havoc on priceless artifacts. Certainly Hannibal is not at all fascinated as to from whence this new interest has emerged. Certainly he does not feel a dawning sense of dread that the awful creature moaning wanton atop him is only beginning.

“Neither shall we ever use or hold it again,” Hannibal notes, digging his cock against the hollow of Will’s thigh where it curves to meet his groin. Slender fingers reach into his shockingly small shorts and tug his cock for a few lazy strokes. Hannibal’s throat clicks when he swallows, lifting his eyes back to meet Will’s own. “History is ours to hoard, what good is there in destroying it when in our keeping, no other shall ever enjoy it?”

“What good is there in eating pieces of me, when you’ve claimed them all already?”

Hannibal’s gaze sharpens as Will laughs, nymph-like and delighted, unruly hair spilling into his face as he ducks his head and giggles. “You allowed me…”

“You had me under that duress,” Will reminds him, bringing his hand to his lips to gently chew against the side of his thumb. “I lost consciousness, do you remember?”

“Your body responded,” Hannibal reminds him. “Your body felt the pleasure in that agony.”

“As yours does with this,” Will points out. Eyes narrowed and lips curving up, he sucks his thumb with a quick sound and drops his hand into his shorts again. “Should I leave you what is left of the set? Will you mourn more for their broken kin if I did?”

“Will...”

“Tell me,” Will groans, leaning nearer. “Tell me to destroy them too.”

“Every piece you break,” Hannibal promises, lips curled over bared teeth, “every hairline fracture I find, every dent and every scrape, will be repaid from your hide.”

“Say it,” Will whispers. He nearly brings their mouths together but knows all too well the vibrating tension within Hannibal’s form. He laughs before lips or teeth can find his own and pushes backward, hips curving to rub their cocks leaking together.

Parting his lips with his tongue, Hannibal sighs. “And if I tell you no? If I ask you to let them be, what remains of the set?”

“An inescapable memory of the others’ end,” Will points out. “A constant reminder that I so heartlessly broke the others. Shall I leave them?”

Hannibal so rarely feels confusion that the sensation itself is bewildering, let alone the choice laid cruelly before him. He takes a moment to steady his breath, and plays out both possibilities to their inevitable end. What Will does not destroy of the set, Hannibal will himself. What point is there in half a tea-set? What reason to keep a portion of something rent in twain?

For an instant, his gaze dips to the scar that bisects Will’s belly, and then he looks away. Jaw set, cock twitching as he says the word, Hannibal murmurs only, “No.”

Will makes a soft sound at the word and bends to press a hot kiss to Hannibal’s chest as he slinks from him again. There is no showmanship in this destruction, he has made his point clearly enough. Will merely tilts the box until it over-balances and falls on its own, gravity taking the rest of the offering given it by a terrible, cruel little boy.

Will brings his hands to his face as though shocked that this happened, that he had done this, and then his fingers slip into his hair and he tugs it until his body arches back and his cock stands rigid in his pants.

“God,” he sighs. “I can’t believe you let me do that.”

The box is broken, lid snapped back on old hinges and wood splintered. Beneath it lay the cracked remains of rhinoceros horn hand-carved into elegant flowers and dragons, 300 years before they were born by artisans of an empire long-dead. Hannibal’s moan curls into a growl, his body responsive now beyond his control as Will’s too responded even in unconsciousness. Hannibal stroked his fresh sutures as he fucked him, gaze held by the glistening purple organ removed and set to ice beside them.

He recognizes the punishment being wrought upon him. He recognizes Will’s offense at being tampered with in such a way. Hannibal chooses not to remind him how readily he consumed himself over breakfast the next day.

“I do hope you’re satisfied now,” Hannibal intones, gaze following the curve of Will’s spine as he bends forward with a laugh, releasing his hair to grab between his legs instead. “You’ve made your point, at the expense of countless sums of money, time, rarity, and the sacrifice of creatures brought to extinction for what you’ve just smashed against the Travertine. Are you quite finished?”

“No,” Will whines, turning his head to look at Hannibal with brows up, eyes wide. “No tea is complete without music, Hannibal. You taught me in welts and stitches how one of our calibre, of our class, carries themselves at high tea.”

Will straightens and steps carefully over the shattered pieces of bone on the floor before him.

“I would hate to be a disappointment after those lessons. We need music. I demand,” his voice echoes as he leaves their bedroom once more, “music.”

Hannibal stops fighting the tug at his heart, and lets it move freely. It’s an alarming sensation, pulse drumming so quickly his skin feels hot, heart thumping like timpanis in his skull. There is sheet music, vast amounts hand-written by its original composers. There are records and wax cylinders, singular recordings of voices and instrumentations captured in time and never to be otherwise heard again. There are instruments…

There is his harpsichord.

The harpsichord Hannibal sent from Baltimore, one of only two items specifically sought to join them here. The harpsichord that came from his aunt’s home in France before that. Centuries old and in perfect working order, his greatest love besides the boy that now threatens it. A seam snaps on the bespoke tie holding down his right wrist and Hannibal snarls, a sound embarrassingly feral.

Only the quiet padding of feet clicking bare against the floor settles down the threats welling like blood in his throat, gutted by the knives this miserable wretch wields against him.

“If you’ve so much as looked at it in an untoward manner…”

Will says nothing, stepping closer to the bed and avoiding the shards left on the ground. He sets part of the instrument beneath his chin and smiles at Hannibal over it, adjusting it against his shoulder.

“1719,” he murmurs, turning gracefully on the spot so Hannibal can see him from every angle, cruel creature that he is. “Stradivari. I think this one,” Will sets the bow to the ancient strings and draws it across them, making the viola shriek. “This one you got at my bidding.”

The sound grits Hannibal’s teeth together so hard it hurts. His skin crawls, prickling goosebumps and lifting the hairs on chest and arms and the back of his neck. His cock drips thick against his belly.

“You said you wished to learn how to play it,” Hannibal reminds him. He wonders for a moment if the ache in his body is akin to how Will felt with his body ransacked. No, he decides. This is far worse.

“So it’s mine then,” Will says, “technically.”

“Technically,” answers Hannibal, clipped, “it is one of thirteen Stradivari violas still in existence. One of ten made during his golden period.”

“What was its name?”

“Its name is the MacDonald,” he says, eyes widening as Will drops it from his chin and snorts, grinning.

“That’s not a very good name.”

“It was named for…” He stops himself, and Will takes a step back as Hannibal snaps harder at his restraints. “You may rename it. Call it after yourself, since we own it now.”

“I own it,” Will reminds him.

“I own it,” Hannibal hisses, “because I own _you_.”

“Yes,” Will whispers, swinging the bow around his finger before catching it again. “Yes, you do. And every day you wish to destroy me to see me gone, and so no one can set eyes on me again. So no one can touch me again. So I am wiped from existence, left alive only in your sketches of me. Your books about me. My scent on your skin and your pillow.”

Hannibal growls so low it runs shivers down Will’s spine and he tilts his head back again, biting his lip.

“Invaluable, as I am to you,” he breathes, setting the tip of the bow to the chest at the foot of their bed. “And its voice silenced, in lieu of mine. Because you cannot silence me.” Will licks his lips and holds the bow at an angle, his knee against the gentle dip in the wood. “Its arias will haunt me, I think,” Will muses, before adding weight to his leg and cracking the bow in two.

Hannibal spits a curse in Lithuanian, belly tensing stiff to stop himself from climaxing at the sound of wood splitting and horsehair whispering soft against the floor. Will laughs, shaking the the mutilated bow like a cat toy, and tosses it behind himself. Only a century-old, that bow, only a century ago carved lovingly of Pernambuco wood imported into France.

The viola shines nearly scarlet as Will lifts it to his chin and plucks childishly across its strings. They resonate with a depth and warmth that plucks heat to Hannibal’s eyes. He sighs out hard, as in his mind flashes the name of every owner of that instrument, every composition it may have sung, every unlikely year of its survival to end up here.

Here, with them.

Here, safely possessed.

Here, in the hands of a selfish boy who delights in destruction.

“Stop,” Hannibal asks, finally breaking, body so tense the veins stand stark against his forearms. “Stop now, leave it. Let it be. You cannot claim moral superiority, demolishing beautiful things simply for the sake of doing so...”

Will rubs the curved back of the instrument against his groin and shivers, pushing up to his toes with a little laugh. Hannibal tenses, and the bindings around his arms begin to tear, now a flurry of movement to free himself.

Will regards this with curious calm, though he tenses, muscle by muscle, in preparation to run. He loves him. This man who has taken countless lives, who has taken so much from Will and bound him to himself. He loves him so much that the thought of them ever being apart has Will in a panic.

Everything, anything else he would take.

For the man who has devoured him whole. For the man who has carved his ownership into Will’s skin. For the man who prided himself on claiming moral superiority, demolishing beautiful boys.

Will holds the instrument by the neck, savoring the smoothness against it from the hands that have held it safe before him. Hands that died to protect it. Hands that have adored it and worshiped it.

It takes just one swing for the wood to splinter into shards against the window and out through it to the sun-warmed courtyard beyond.

Its final notes, discordant and cruel, ring long in the silence between them. Neither move. Neither breathe. Hannibal’s unfaltering heart ceases to beat as the slivers of wood carved in Cremona by the greatest craftsman of his and every age flash red and pale and fall.

“Isn’t it extraordinary,” Will whispers, “to know that we were the last to ever hear it?”

It is extraordinary. It is thrilling. It is the rarest opportunity in Earthly existence and it is theirs, shared once and never again.

The acceptance of this does not delay Hannibal’s hands a moment longer in ripping loose the bindings of his ankles, teeth bared like fangs.

Will bolts like a deer, beyond the door and down the stairs and through to their kitchen.

“I planned for wine as well!” He calls as he runs, breath barely faster than when he lies in bed lazy, or when he reads a book, curled against Hannibal’s side. “The Romanee-Conti, 1978. Imagine its stains against the sheets!”

Hannibal grasps the bannister to spin himself after. “Every drop, Will, every drop repaid in -”

He’s not given time to finish the sentence before there’s a crash and glass shatters across the floor. The scent of the pinot noir - ripe with tannins and scented subtly with oak, a sensual acidity threaded electric throughout - hits him first, and a laudable leap clears him across the once regal wine to the other side. Will shrieks laughter, but Hannibal lunges to block his exit from the kitchen, and the boy chooses his inevitable end in the cellar instead.

There will be blood, Hannibal is certain, his own and Will’s. There may be bones broken. Skin will be split. The monstrous creature knows well what potential defenses he can grasp as Hannibal slows his steps to creaking steadiness down the stairs, rubbing the soreness from his wrists.

“Did you know,” Hannibal says, “that a person can live comfortably with a single lung? Their capability for exertion and physical endurance will be notably lessened, however.”

“You will hate yourself for breaking that in me,” Will’s voice whispers from the dusk of the cellar. “You will curse having done it.”

“You would tempt me to it, Will, now?”

“No,” Will allows, laughing quietly where he stands, still, entirely, as Hannibal stalks for him. “I would have you claim me again, relive the lives of the things I took from you and remind me that I destroyed them. That no one will hear or touch or see them again.”

“I could just as readily do the same to you. Rare creature, exquisitely and uniquely made,” Hannibal says softly. “Unlike any that has come before and as none shall be after. My own private reserve of beauty, to be sipped or drank in swift swallows. You forget yourself.”

“I know myself,” Will says. “And I know you.”

At this, Hannibal allows a wan smile. Pity, for the artisans whose hands formed art that would be their lasting legacy. Pity, for the boy who thinks himself a god. As his feet reach the floor he does not raise his head to the darkness, but simply draws a breath. Will’s sweat is sweet as honeysuckle; the emission leaking into the fabric of his briefs as smooth as milk. Hannibal licks his bottom lip between his teeth, senses prickled, giving shape to Will’s form in the shadow.

“Put down the scalpel,” he says, “lest you tempt me with it. Should I be forced to remove it from your hand, and find it in my own, you will learn the extent of loss which one can survive.”

“I remember those lessons too,” Will assures him softly. For a moment he doesn’t move at all, but when he does it is to set the little object down with a click. “Very, very well.”

A gentle shuffling of feet against the floor, and when Will seeks to escape past Hannibal, he finds himself snared. Hand in his hair pulling hard enough to free roots from his scalp, the other against his throat to press to the arteries that hum with his quick pulse.

“You got so hard,” Will whispers, not struggling, not trying to break free. “Watching me destroy. Watching me create an entirely new world. A world without those artifacts, a world that knows them only as legend. Lost, and never reclaimed. You got so hard watching me play God because it reminds you so much of yourself.”

Hannibal does not argue the logic of it. He does not argue that he was brought near to furious orgasm by the experience of Will’s hedonism. He does not argue that what Will has done is glorious, a new composition for them to pluck in the other’s soul, an unique iteration on a theme with which Hannibal is intimately familiar. He does nothing more than fold his fingers over Will’s mouth, pinching closed his nose, and with his other hand shoves his shorts down to bare him.

“Unforgivable decadence,” Hannibal rumbles against his ear. “Unconscionable debauchery and disregard for creations that survived lifetimes until you.”

He lifts his fingers enough to listen to Will’s rattling breath gasp into heaving lungs. “Like your boys…”

“Like your clients.”

“Better,” Will laughs, whining high as his breath is stopped again and he’s bent to the floor, shoved cheek-first against the cement. Hannibal forces two fingers inside him, and bites hard enough into his shoulder to burst blood hot beneath his teeth.

Will makes a sound, scraping his fingernails against the uneven ground. It hurts. Reclaiming always does. It is almost a rebirth in that way, becoming new to Hannibal as he wishes to claim him, becoming better to Hannibal because he makes him that way.

He can’t breathe and he doesn’t try to pry Hannibal’s fingers from his face to allow himself to. He chokes softly and jerks against Hannibal’s hold on him, feeling his blood pulse down his shoulder and to his chest, to the floor, from the vicious bite against him.

That too is a new creation. A destruction of the world Will had built to build upon it another. Will keens and kicks one leg out straight against the ground, growling his need to be touched and fucked immediately. 

He’s released only so Hannibal can slap him, hard enough to steal what little breath lingered in his lungs. A sharp gasp fills him shaking and Will pours it out as a moan against the ground, sweeter than the wine spilled upstairs, more lovely than the viola’s final discordant hymn. Hannibal holds him by the hair and grates his cheek against the ground, forcing his head down and his hips high, a few rough fucks with his fingers all Will receives before Hannibal jerks his cock free and presses it against him.

They have sought for a new means to hunt, both finding decreasing satisfaction in the methods that pleased them before, and higher risk in pursuing greater thrills. Perhaps Will, in his savagery, has found the answer to a question neither have been bold enough to ask. Perhaps this will be their new means of shaping the world in their image.

Hannibal curses him for this gift, as his cock singes hot with friction from his unrelenting entry. Hannibal curses him for his cleverness, as Will’s skin splits and blood lubricates the next hard thrust that shoves breath from his body. Hannibal’s nails leave stripes torn along his ribs and his other hand fists hard in Will’s curls and his curse becomes a groan, laid heavy on Will’s bitten shoulder.

Will allows himself to be the grateful sacrifice on this altar. He knows that he will wake one day to watch his precious books burn. He will wake one day to see his collected manuscripts torn to pieces before his eyes. He thinks of the ache, crueler than any he feels now and he cries out, voice echoing in the space beneath their home.

It is a rough taking, no regard given whatsoever for Will’s pleasure. Hannibal takes him, curses him, worships him, praises him, thanks him as his seed spills thick and slick within his boy.

“We will destroy worlds,” Will sobs. “We will build them anew, things within existing only by our permission, nothing more, nothing in excess of pride for its own existence.”

Hannibal pulls himself free of Will’s ass, spreading a cheek with his hand to watch the mingled fluids sluice in a thick dollop down his thigh. “I should never have let you read McCarthy.”

Will’s sob flutters to a laugh before its wings singe and fall to ash, and his shoulders heave in joyful tears against the floor. Hannibal should leave him here, he knows. Bind his wrists with plastic ties and cinch one around his cock for good measure. He should let him think on the destruction he’s wrought, and feel his own mortality return to him in shivers and aches and loneliness.

But he is not wrong, and his words are fruit plucked from the tree of an ancient and terrifying knowledge. Hannibal licks the sweetness from his lips, coppery and hot, and tucks himself away as Will slides to his side on the floor and presses a hand against his eyes. His cheeks are wet, one rubbed raw against the cement, but he smiles against his wrist in little hiccuping breaths.

Hannibal sinks his fingers into Will’s hair, sitting back and allowing Will to drag himself to Hannibal’s lap. “Auctions,” Hannibal suggests. “Estate sales.”

“Historical sites.”

“Museums,” Hannibal muses.

“Rome,” Will purrs, stretching with a wince before turning to press his face to Hannibal’s stomach. He smells of semen and sweat, and the lingering scent of true fear for the destruction of his things. Will plucks gently against his shorts and nuzzles closer.

For a few moments they rest quietly together, Will catching his breath and Hannibal carding through his hair, pulling free the long loose strands he had yanked from his scalp.

“I passed Artemis and the Stag so many times, getting those things,” Will muses, before he breaks into giggles, a soft innocent sound curled to darkness. “I don’t think I would have had the heart to destroy that one, even if I'd tried.”

“I don’t imagine you could without a sledgehammer,” Hannibal allows, though his heart trots a beat faster before slowing again. “I did not think you would take up the Stradivari.”

“The harpsichord would have been too hard to bring upstairs.”

“It would be unwise to make me choose between you and it,” murmurs Hannibal, the warning muted now by his resounding orgasm, still spilling shivers of pleasure like sunlight beneath his skin. A commendable climax, noteworthy among many. Will laughs again and Hannibal hums, leaning low to draw his nose against Will’s hair and breathe him in, hunched around the battered boy in his lap.

He spans a hand down Will’s stomach and grasps his cock, stroking languidly and with unspoken permission.

“You were beautiful,” Hannibal confesses, “in your insolent immortality.”

“I felt more powerful than I have in years,” Will admits, biting his lip and arching up into Hannibal’s hand against him. It feels good, the fringe of kindness against the sharp shards of cruelty rained upon him earlier.

Well-deserved, of course.

Will gasps and squirms against Hannibal’s hand as he strokes him faster, bringing his boy to hard-earned pleasure. He is quiet as he allows his body to succumb to delight and ecstasy, just panting and whimpers and sighs until he spills thick against Hannibal’s hand. Slowing his strokes, but not yet releasing him, Hannibal times his tugs to match Will’s slowing breath.

“I love you,” Will tells him, pressing his lips together and parting them in sleepy pleasure. “And I would never sacrifice the harpsichord for an orgasm. I know how to play it.”

“You might have learned how to play the viola,” Hannibal snorts, sweeping a kiss across Will’s mouth. He smiles, laughing, and tilts his head as Hannibal nuzzles his cheek.

“We’ll just have to find another.”


End file.
